Day One

Happy Birthday to me. Today is my 38th birthday. That’s 24 in smoking years. Just give me a second.  I’ll start writing this thing as soon as I finish my cigarette . . .

OK. I’m ready. I started smoking on or about my 14th birthday, September 18th. Why?  I’m thinking and my mind is blank. Why?! 

Throughout my early childhood years I was inundated with information about how bad smoking is for one’s health. I remember two TV public service announcements in particular. One featured John Wayne, the Duke, pleading with people to quit smoking. He informed the world that he was dying of lung cancer as a direct result of his longtime smoking habit. The second featured Yul Brynner who told a similar story. 

And I remember one other TV personality from my childhood. He wasn’t world famous. He hosted a local movie show in which he would introduce today’s movie and talk about the stars featured. Joe Van. That was his name. Matinee with Joe Van. I watched this show Monday through Friday. I watched as Joe disclosed to all of us viewers that he had been diagnosed with cancer. And I watched as the disease slowly manifested itself within him. Slowly but steadily, the disease ravaged this once healthy man until he became bone thin, frail, barely able to make it through his brief appearances. Joe Van.

I put out my cigarette no more than 10 minutes ago, and already the craving for the next one has hit me. I’m debating whether to satisfy that craving right now or to try and fight it off, at least for a little while. Insidious. Damned insidious! If I were stranded in a desert with nothing but the clothes on my back, and I was offered the choice of having either a smoke or a glass of water, my answer . . . would not be immediate. The fact that I would pause, even if only for a second, freaks me out. Yet I know that I would take some time to think it over. Cigarette? Water?  Cigarette . . .

I already satisfied that craving I was talking about. No willpower.

Why did I start smoking? Again I pause, and again my mind is blank. I can tell you one thing, though. I thoroughly enjoyed my first cigarette. I loved the taste of it, the feel of it. I loved it so much that I smoked my second cigarette within minutes of finishing the first. Next, I walked to the corner grocery store and bought my very first pack of cigarettes: Matinee king size. Joe had his matinee; now I had mine. I asked the store owner for a couple of packs of matches, which were free in those days. The owner never questioned my age. I’m not even sure if there were any laws in effect at that time regarding smoking and minors. If there were, they were extremely lax.  It was the ’70s, the freedom era.

Yeah, so I smoked a good month before I told anybody about my new habit. I smoked for and by myself. All of my close friends at the time were nonsmokers, so I didn’t start because of peer pressure. In fact, if anything, I was ostracized by my friends because of my nasty habit. I was alone with my cigarettes and, honestly, I didn’t give a damn. I loved smoking!

I just used the past tense. Does this mean that subconsciously, I no longer love smoking?  Hmmmm.

Back to why: Because I loved cigarettes! I loved everything about them. The packaging, the flavor, the feel, the motion, the sexy swirl of the smoke as it exited my mouth—I loved all of it.

Again with the past tense. Those reasons I just cited are no longer as prominent in my thoughts as they once were. These days I seldom pause to appreciate the flavor; I seldom ponder the images formed by the exhaled smoke. I smoke because I crave the cigarettes. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, not often enough, I do think about the taste of my cigarette—and savor it; but most of the time the smoking is just a habitual ritual and I am oblivious as to whether I am actually enjoying my cigarette. Oblivious! When I really stop to think about it, to think about the cigarette between my lips right now, I often find that I’m not even noticing its taste. Sometimes—too often—my cigarettes taste bad.

OK, my parents smoked; that is, they used to smoke. They both quit in their early 40s and haven’t looked back. They have reminded me more than once that I was the one who begged them to quit way back when, back in the days when the Duke was a constant reminder that smoking can kill you. Yeah, I noticed it too. I used the word “can” as opposed to “will.” I am not entirely convinced that smoking is a death sentence. I mean, life is a death sentence. We’re all going to die of something someday. I constantly joke that I would hate to quit smoking and then get killed by some drunk driver as I was crossing the street. The idea that I could die while craving a cigarette that I have denied myself truly bothers me. Loopy, yes. Twisted, definitely.

I did not start smoking because of my parents’ example. Nor did I start due to peer pressure. I tasted that first cigarette and saw that it was good. “Let there be light!” I cried as I struck up my match, the wind gnawing at the flame, threatening to quell its essence entirely before I had sufficient time to ignite my cigarette. Yes, let there be light . . . and lighters.